


The Heart Has Songs of Its Own

by roebling



Series: Hippie AU [2]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-05
Updated: 2009-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's what keeps Brendon going, keeps him on tour even when he's got no money and no ride to the next show and hasn't showered in a week. The music is enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart Has Songs of Its Own

**Author's Note:**

> H/T to the Grateful Dead for the title.

Brendon leaves his shit with a trio of girls who drove out from Chico for the show and couldn't get tickets. He doesn't know them but he compliments the one girl's tie-dye and then they are friends. He smokes a bowl with them, sitting on an Indian blanket between their Honda Civic and the next car over. The asphalt is still warm, even through the printed cotton. They seem like sweet girls; spacey, but sweet. Brendon knows their type pretty well by now. Probably, they're on summer vacation; they'll go back to UCLA or Vanderbilt in the fall. The fair girl ties a string of silver bells around his ankle. They chime sweetly whenever he takes a step.

The girls swear he can leave his bag. They don't have tickets; they're not going anywhere. They're just going to chill. He hesitates but the pot makes him amiable and happy and they're nice. They're such nice girls. He loves them and he loves everyone else, and there's no reason to say no. He leaves his bag.

He doesn't leave his guitar. Brendon doesn't leave his guitar just anywhere.

He sees some kids he met at one of the Orpheum Theatre shows -- seems like a lifetime ago now -- and they offer him a beer and invite him to come and jam with them. He plays an acoustic Scarlet Fire and they all cheer and clap at the end. Brendon's used to that reaction. He's used to it and he's used it for tickets and places to stay and for money to buy cheap vegan burritos when he's been so hungry he's almost passed out. Still, every time, it's a delight. They all love the music; they're all here for the music. That's what keeps Brendon going, keeps him on tour even when he's got no money and no ride to the next show and hasn't showered in a week. The music is enough.

He's got two GA tickets to the show, and there's only one of him, so he's hoping he can sell the other. He could have given it to the girls who're watching his bag, but there's only one ticket, and there are two of them, and there would probably have been some expectation about having to hang with them all night, which he doesn't want to do. Anyway. There's a ton of kids with crummy-looking 'I need a miracle' signs. Brendon could go up to one of them, but before he's made up his mind he hears someone calling his name. It's Ian. He's kind of a friend -- they see each other at a lot of shows. Ian's curly hair is tied back in a bandanna and he's wearing a sarong and no shoes.

"Brendon," he says. "Dude, you are just the dude I want to see." Ian is grinning and happy and his pupils are wide. Okay.

The sun has set but the sky is still mauve and lavender, like a paint-by-numbers. Brendon's still got his guitar.

"Yo," he says. "Let me leave this in your car." He trusts Ian and the locks on his sedan.

Ian nods, and keeps talking about this most excellent falafel he had for dinner. It was the most delicious falafel ever. Brendon rolls his eyes behind Ian's back as he tucks his guitar into his front seat. He wipes his palms on the front of his jeans.

"Hey," Ian says. "Come here."

He opens a little baggie and tips out a couple of bits of dried mushroom into his hand. "You want?"

"Yeah, okay," Brendon says. He's done this before. It can be good. It can be really good and he's got a good feeling about tonight.

By the time they're past security and inside on the floor, everything is rich and technicolor lovely and Brendon feels like dancing and singing. He's not too high; he feels good. The house lights dim and the stage lights come on and it's like a rainbow. They're up close but Brendon can't stand still. He nods to Ian and navigates the still, stagnant crowd. He wants to laugh because laughter feels like the bells around his ankle, and he wants to show all these old plodding people standing in place holding their red party cups how much more they could be feeling everything.

There's space on the sides and there are other people there: girls in long skirts that fly open like flowers blooming when they twirl. One has long hair and it hits Brendon in the face, but he doesn't care because it's so soft and smells like almonds. He hasn't smelt anything that good in forever. He wonders if there's something wrong with his nose, not to have smelt anything that good before. Brendon dances wildly, carelessly, heedless of what he looks like or who he's dancing with. They're all dancing together.

By the time the opening band takes their last bow, he's very thirsty. He shares a bottle of water with a guy wearing a patched vest and ragged khaki shorts, and it is the coldest water Brendon has ever tasted. It makes his teeth hurt. He has to sit down and rub his teeth over them until they feel normal again. As normal as they can feel. Teeth. Teeth are a pretty weird thing, he thinks. He wonders where Ian is, but he doesn't want to push back onto the floor, especially now. It's three times as crowded as before.

He could call, but Brendon's cellphone got turned off two months ago because he didn't pay the bill. He's not sure if he's going to bother getting it turned back on. He doesn't usually stick around in any one place long enough for it to matter.

The audience erupts when Fall Out Boy takes stage. They open with a blistering Sugar right into Where's Your Boy and everyone knows it's going to be a special show. Brendon can't look at the stage because it doesn't make any sense, seems like something out of a dream, but he can't stop moving. It feels like his hands and his feet have discovered independent but complimentary beats, and he's fascinated with the way his body operates. Muscles shift and bunch. His lungs pump air. When he closes his eyes he can see the web of capillaries in his eyelids throb in time with his heart.

The floor is sticky with spilled alcohol and filth but Brendon takes off his shoes because he feels better that way, feels more keenly the vibrations of the music in the floorboards. On stage the band is so into it. They segue from Dance, Dance into an extended jam that is so fucking good, so tight, so revelatory that Brendon wishes the music would never end, and he could stay here with these good people forever. He is breathless and the man with the water is gone, so he sits and taps both feet in time and bounces and he can only stay down for five minutes, maybe less, then he's back on his feet, clasping hands with someone he doesn't know and won't ever see again, but it's okay. It's okay. All of it is wonderful.

By the time the second set is over his high is wearing off. He's tired, but so happy. He's been watching a woman and a man and their little daughter dance. The little girl is maybe three and has curly golden hair; Brendon has a niece that age. As soon as he thinks it, he has to move, find somewhere else to rest, because thinking about his nieces and his nephews and his sisters and brothers and, oh god, his parents makes his heart ache, even on a night as good as this one.

He should find Ian. He needs to find Ian. He has no idea where Ian has gone. He pushes through the crowd, up near the stage, hoping he'll see the familiar nimbus of curly hair, but he doesn't. He's starting to get a little freaked because he needs his guitar. He needs to get his fucking guitar and he doesn't want Ian to flake on him. He should go wait by the car. He should go wait by the car. He heads towards the exit, but then stops, because the crowd is roaring and the band is back on stage and holy shit, they're covering Eyes of the World. Brendon knows he should go wait by the car but they've played this live maybe twice ever, and he's not going to miss it. He throws himself back into the thick of the press and dances with his eyes closed and his ears and his heart open. He dances until he's breathless and it feels like he's not even just him, but a tiny part of something a lot bigger, which is maybe just some mumbo-jumbo he picked up from the yoga teacher who he hung around with one week during Spring Tour, but it feels so true.

Then Pete Wentz is telling them all to get out and spread some fucking love, and the house lights are coming up, and Brendon is blinking. His bare feet stick to the tacky floor with each step, and the bells on his ankles jangle sadly. He shuffles out with the rest of the spent crowd, missing his shoes. Back inside, the venue crew starts to sweep up the debris. It turns on and it turns off, just like that.

When he gets to Ian's car, Ian is not there. Brendon is cold and wants his sweater, but that's with his other stuff with the girls from Chico. The desert night is huge and deep. They're not so far from Vegas, but the nights of Brendon's childhood were always dimmed by the lights from the strip. He sits on the hood of the car and sticks his hands in his armpits. A guy walks past selling soft pretzels. They were probably warmed up in a microwave and most likely taste like cardboard, but Brendon is so fucking hungry. He digs for a dollar in his pocket. He pulls out a crumpled five and a few singles and the other ticket. Fuck. He forgot after he did the 'shrooms and he didn't sell it and now it's too late. Fuck. He needed that money. He asks the pretzel guy for mustard, but he just shrugs. No mustard. Brendon curses at him and eats his mealy pretzel voraciously. No sign of Ian.

He finds a scrap of paper in his pocket, but he doesn't have a pen or pencil so he can't write a note.

He figures he'll go find the girls from Chico, and when he gets back, Ian will be here.

So he goes.

He's almost sure he remembers where they were parked: it was section A-8, right next to a big black SUV. He sees the SUV. He remembers because it has a UNLV license plate tag. Brendon might have gone to UNLV, probably would have. No way he was going to Brigham Young, like his parents wanted. UNLV is a good school. He could have sold his parents on it, if he majored in something practical like accounting or construction management, like they wanted. Still. Maybe he's not remembering because the pretty California girls and their Honda Civic are nowhere to be seen.

His ears burn. He thinks he probably won't cry but he can't be sure. There's a guy leaning up against the SUV.

"Hey, did you see where the girls in the Civic went?" he asks.

The guy takes a slow drag on his cigarette, and puffs out the smoke all at once. It floats up and out. "Left a while ago," he says. "Said they had tickets to the show in Wisconsin tomorrow and wanted to get to their hotel early."

Fuck. He thanks the guy and starts walking back to Ian's car. What an idiot he is. He's had this kind of thing happen often enough that he should know better, but he just trusts people. He can't help it. He wouldn't even be here if he didn't, would either be back at his parents' house, miserable every day, or he'd be dead in a ditch. Brendon can't not think that most people are pretty damn awesome, but when things like happen, it makes him want to cry and crawl home or lash out or yell or just do something, even though there's nothing he can do that will help.

All his clothing is gone. His underwear. His toothbrush. His flannel blanket and his ultra-lightweight tent, which cost three hundred bucks and on which he'd spent the last birthday money he's ever likely to get from his Grandma. It's nothing irreplaceable but he doesn't have the money to replace it. He's got seven bucks, no shoes, and the only thing he's eating since breakfast is that crummy pretzel.

When he gets back to where Ian's car was parked, it's gone. No note, no nothing. Gone.

Hours later, well after midnight, he's walking down the highway. If he can get to the airport ... well, he can get a bus somewhere. He'll go as far as his seven dollars can take him, and then he'll figure something out. This isn't the first time he's been in this position, but Ian leaving with his guitar really makes him want to curl up and sob. Usually, he can busk for a enough money to make it to the next bus stop, but without his guitar he doesn't really have a lot to go on. Yeah, he can sing a capella, but nobody is going to want to hear him sing the songs he learned in church, so long ago, or the few silly show tunes he remembers from the high school show choir.

Well, he'll figure something out. He's slept on park benches and he's eaten dinner at shelters before.

He steps on something sharp and winces. His feet are sore and he's probably going to end up with tetanus or who knows what, walking around without shoes on. When he thinks that he hears his mom saying it, in her most nagging mom-voice. When he shivers, he's not sure if it's from the cold or from the realization that, stranded in Reno with no money and no shoes and still coming off his high, he's turning into his mother.

He's been pretty good at ignoring the headlights that rush past, but when a car rumbles onto the gravel right behind him and honks, Brendon nearly wets his pants. He is totally man enough to admit that. The car's a green and purple VW bus and there's a guy with a ponytail and the beginnings of grey at his temples leaning out the window.

"Hey," the guy says. "So, uh, we saw you walking, and not to be a drag but it's kind of cold you know?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. "It is."

"I have a sweater you can have," the guy says, helpfully. His smile is broad and curving, like a cheerful Jack-o-lantern.

"Uh, sure," Brendon says. He doesn't remember anything in elementary school about not accepting outerwear from strangers.

The guy winces, and another guy pops up in the passenger seat. Brendon had kind of thought he might be the sweater, but no, he's just a short guy with the longest, nattiest dreadlocks Brendon's ever seen.

The short guy interrupts. "What he means to say is that we can totally give you a lift, kid. You were at the show, right?"

He has an accent that Brendon cannot place. He closes his eyes and thinks of the mistakes he's already made tonight. Still, it's miles yet to the airport and his feet hurt and he really doesn't want to spend the night on the side of the road, at least not without his tent. Anyway, third time is totally the charm. This could work out.

"Where are you going?" Brendon asks.

"Maryland," the first guy says. "We're heading out to the Humbuzzle. You heard of it?"

Of course he's heard of it -- it's the best music festival in the entire country. Fall Out Boy is playing. Widespread Panic is playing. Everyone is playing. Brendon's never wanted to go to a concert so much in his entire life. He doesn't have a cent to his name, but fuck it.

"Do you think I could bum a ride all the way out?" he asks, smiling as nicely as he can manage. "I really don't have any money ..."

They turn and hold some kind of silent conversation before the first guy gives a thumbs up and says, "Climb in the back. Don't mind the dogs. I'm Gerard by the way, and this is Frank."

Brendon wakes up the next morning with no idea where he is and two chihuahuas sleeping on his stomach. He shudders when he remembers previous night. The loss of his guitar is palpable, like he's lost a limb. He scrunches his face and tries to stretch without upsetting the doggies.

"Oh hey, you're awake."

Brendon starts, and looks up. It's Gerard, the dude from last night. He's not driving now. He's sitting backwards in the passenger seat, hugging the headrest. "How'd you sleep?" he asks.

"Pretty good," Brendon says. "Thanks for the ride, seriously. You guys are life-savers."

Gerard beams. "Are you hungry?" he asks. "Frank's a vegan, and he doesn't eat gluten, but we probably have something edible." He leans so far over the seat to rummage in a cooler that Brendon's almost sure he's going to come tumbling head over heels into the back the next time Frank hits the brakes.

Gerard fixes him a bowl of granola and yogurt and pours him a cup of coffee from a thermos, and it's just about the best food ever. Brendon's hungry and kind of out of it, so he's glad that Gerard seems content to do most of the talking. Frank and Gerard live in Seattle, but they grew up in New Jersey. Their dogs are named Eggplant Parmigiana and Octo. Brendon doesn't ask how old they are but they must be in their late thirties, at least, because Gerard tells a long story about how they met in the parking lot of a Grateful Dead show in Atlanta, Georgia in the summer of 1990 and spent the rest of that summer tour together, not even realizing until it was time to head home that they lived literally like five blocks from each other. Gerard's eyes go wide and he says, "Crazy, right? Things just work out sometimes, though. It's kind of awesome."

Brendon nods in mute agreement.

Frank says less, but he seems like a nice guy, too. They both must be, to take Brendon all the way to Maryland and not ask for a cent in exchange. They feed him and when they realize he doesn't have any shoes they stop at the first Payless they see. They don't even say anything when Brendon picks out a pair of pink Keds from the woman's section. When they get back to the car he draws a mandala on one in black ball point pen. When Gerard sees what he's doing he gets so excited he almost spills a cup of coffee on himself. He asks if he can do Brendon's other shoe and spends the next two hours hunched over in the front seat. When he hands it back to Brendon it is covered from toe to heel in amazing and intricate drawings of birds in flight and flowers and stars. It's the coolest thing Brendon's ever seen.

Gerard blushes and demurely says that he has his own graphic design company. He motions to the back of the van, where there are boxes and boxes stacked. They are full of tee shirts. Gerard and Frank are going to the Humbuzzle to vend. Gerard tells Brendon all about his business. They do all the festivals on the West coast, and some on the East. They don't make a ton of money, but they don't need much. Gerard explains that ever since his brother set up an online store for him, they do most of their business online anyway. All they have to do is print the list of orders, package them, and take them to the post office. The internet takes care of the rest. Brendon has never seen anyone so excited by e-commerce.

After they stop for lunch in Wyoming, Gerard starts driving again. Brendon offers, but they both tell him not to worry. He feels really bad, like he's freeloading. He has a hundred bucks in his savings account, but he stupidly still has the account at Bank of Las Vegas and there's definitely no branches around here. He's never been to Wyoming before. Everything is flat here like it is in the desert, but it's very different. He can't say why. Frank joins him in the back seat and they do a crossword puzzle. There's a question about Les Paul, and Brendon can't help but let his pathetic story about his guitar tumble out. Frank gets a weird expression on his face.

"You should have said something," he says, leaning into the back. He fights with some of the shirt boxes for a minute, and disturbs Parm, who is sleeping on them. When Frank pops back up, he's got a guitar case, worn and covered in stickers. "You should have said you played."

Frank has two guitars, actually. He's played for years. Gerard admits blushingly that they had a band. He sung. They played shows all over the place, but it just got to be too much work and not enough pleasure, especially after Frank opened the shelter. That's what he does in the real world: he runs a no-kill animal rescue and rehabilitation center. Brendon doesn't think he's ever met such cool old dudes in his life. When Frank encourages him to take the other guitar and jam, that feeling only intensifies.

They play together for hours, play through just about every song they mutually know. Gerard sings along from the front seat. He's got kind of a phenomenal voice. Brendon would have love to have seen their band play and he says so. Gerard grins and says he'll send Brendon one of their CDs, once they get back to Seattle.

Night falls as they pull into Omaha. Brendon thinks they'll just keep driving, but Gerard yawns and turns off the highway into the parking lot of a nondescript Best Western. Brendon still has no money. Maybe he should change his mind and claim he's got friends in Omaha he can stay with. It's not true but it could be true. Gerard and Frank wouldn't know. Brendon can't take advantage of their generosity. At the very least, he'll sleep in the van. He definitely doesn't need a bed. When he hears Gerard ask the clerk for a room with two twins, he's relieved. When they go back to the van to get their stuff and Frank and the dogs, Brendon starts to untie his shoes.

"Is the barefoot thing, like, a thing?" Gerard asks, his head cocked. "I hate going barefoot, but whatever floats your boat."

"No, uh... Just getting ready for bed," Brendon says cheerfully.

Frank frowns. "Did you or did you not just go with Ger to get a room?"

"Yeah but," Brendon says, frowning. "I don't ... You said only two twins."

Gerard and Frank look to each other, quick and private.

"Brendon," Gerard says, confidentially. "Frank and I share."

"Oh," Brendon says. "You don't have ..." He stops dead. His cheeks go red. "OH."

"That's not a problem for you, is it?" Frank asks, frowning a little, like maybe it's been a problem for them once too often for his liking.

"No, no!" Brendon says. "No! I mean. Um. I ... Me too." He looks down, swallows. "I still could have slept in the car."

Gerard laughs. "Cut it out," he says, catching Brendon around the neck and giving him a noogie. Brendon wriggles to get free.

Frank rolls his eyes and grabs the guitars.

Brendon showers while Gerard and Frank get Taco Bell for dinner. He squeezes shampoo from the little courtesy bottle and lathers up his hair. He's never been so glad to be clean. He doesn't even care he has to put his dirty clothes back on. He can't believe he's known Gerard and Frank for less than a full day. He can't believe they'll be in Maryland this time tomorrow.

They sit on top of the covers and eat burritos. Frank grumbles about pork fat in the re-fried beans and Gerard rolls his eyes. After, Brendon plays guitar, sings all the Beatles songs he knows, and all the Grateful Dead songs, and all the Dylan songs. When he's run out he plays the religious songs he learned for summer camp, back before his parents relented and stopped making him go. He even plays the few songs he's written that he remembers. Most are still in Lisa Frank notebooks in his old room in his parents' house, if they haven't been thrown away. Brendon hasn't thought of those songs in years, and he hasn't written any since. Gerard lays on his back with his head in Frank's lap and claps after every song. Frank watches Brendon carefully.

By the time Brendon's done, Gerard's asleep. Brendon starts to put away the guitar. When Frank speaks, he starts.

"You're good, Brendon," he says. "You should ... have you thought about trying to get a demo made? Play some shows or something?"

"Oh, no way," Brendon says. "I just play for fun. I'm not. I haven't written any songs or anything. Not like, real ones."

"So what were those you just played us?" Frank asks, deadpan. Brendon can't help but notice the way he gently thumbs the soft of Gerard's temple.

"Songs, I guess," Brendon says, softly. "Yeah. Okay."

Brendon lays awake, can't get his mind to shut off. The thing is, everyone has always told him that he's a fool for dreaming. One in ten million succeeds who sets out to be a musician. All his life his parents told him he would go to college, meet a nice girl, settle down in a stable career and start a family. That's never been what Brendon's wanted. And yeah, he left, but still some tiny part of him believes what they spent so long convincing him to believe. Frank's probably the first person who has ever said the opposite: you've got a shot, kid, so go for it.

The next morning they get coffee and muffins from Dunkin Donuts and eat in the car. Gerard and Frank are quieter and Brendon ends up telling them everything: he tells them about getting caught with Orrin from algebra class in the empty bedroom at Suellen Jones's party, about how his mother had screamed and cried, but how his father's silence was worse. He tells them about the first time he heard Fall Out Boy on the radio, how he'd overheard a couple of older kids in his band class talking about driving to LA for a show, and how -- somehow -- he'd worked up the courage to ask them if they could give him a ride. That was the first night he ever snuck out, and when he saw his parents standing in the doorway when the car pulled into the driveway the next morning, he knew something had been severed, irrevocably.

He missed weeks of school his senior year, driving out to shows in San Francisco with friends or even just anybody who'd give him a ride. Thank god for his job at the Smoothie Hut. His parents cut off his allowance, but he would have done anything ... He feels a little sick when he thinks about what he would have been prepared to do. He just barely made it through high school. The day after graduation, he left with his backpack and his guitar. He hasn't been home since. He's made friends on tour. He's spent time at halfway houses and at communes. He's traveled up and down the West coast so many times he knows it like the back of his hand. He doesn't turn twenty one until next April but he feels a lot older than that.

"You've done a lot of living," Gerard says softly, when he's done. "But you've got a lot of living left to do."

The silence is solemn until Eggplant Parmigiana whimpers and barks. Her little legs kick.

"Chasing rabbits in her sleep," Frank says fondly. Nobody says anything else and Brendon plucks a sad small kind of melody out on the guitar.

They've crossed the better part of the country in under two days. It's all a blur of same-looking highways and rest stops, and variable, gorgeous sky. Brendon wishes he could take a picture of every cloud they pass. As they head off the main drag and towards the mountains of western Maryland, they start seeing more cars with loud, political bumper stickers and cargo carriers strapped on top. It's late evening and he's drowsing, chin to chest, when Frank singsongs, "We're here!"

There are lines of cars stretching in every direction and campfires glowing up the hill. Brendon stares in awe for a minute and then says, "Oh my god, wait."

He doesn't have a ticket.

Gerard rolls his eyes. "It's okay, kid. You're with us."

"No," he says. "You've already done way too much." He pauses. "Besides, you guys are staying a hotel, right? I was kind of thinking ... well, I was kind of hoping I could camp."

Frank laughs. "You don't have to hang out with us old fogies. But let us at least lend you some money."

Brendon starts to protest, loudly, so loudly that he wakes the dogs, who howl in annoyance and accompaniment. Gerard starts laughing so hard he snorts. Frank rolls his eyes but he's smiling. "It's a loan," he repeats over and over. "Fine," he says at last, throwing up his hands. "Consider it an advance on your pay. You can work the booth when we want to go watch music."

"Oh!" Gerard says. "Yeah, totally. A pay advance. You can't say no to that, Brendon." He smiles, content he has had his way.

Brendon sighs and lets them give him the money, more money than he could possibly make even if he worked for them from noon to midnight, all weekend. It's enough to buy a camping ticket, with a little left over. Frank parks on the side of the road and roots around in the back of the van for a while. He emerges with a tent and a sleeping bag, neatly rolled. "Never know when you'll need extra gear," he says, self-satisfied. "And hey, you better take the other guitar. Don't know what we'd do with two, anyway. Gerard sucks."

Brendon is crying. He can't help it; he knew it was okay to trust these guys, and they've been just about the nicest people he's ever met. Gerard's crying too, so it's okay, and Frank is rustling around in the back way more than is necessary. Gerard tells him twice where their stall is and hugs him. Brendon wipes his eyes on his forearm and waves. Frank toots the horn twice as they drive away.

The line to get in is not as long as it looks, at least if you don't have a car. He walks up to the check in tent and stands at the end of the queue. It's not long, but it's also not moving very quickly. Brendon is wearing Frank's NOFX sweatshirt, but he'd still like to get his tent pitched before midnight. He's not super great at that kind of thing, and he's worried about how long it might take, even considering Frank made sure he had a hammer and at least two dozen extra stakes.

Finally, he's next in line. He's got out the money that Frank gave him, and he's pretty sure he can splurge for some dinner even after he pays for the ticket. The guy in front of him pays and finishes up and Brendon smiles and is about to move up when two tall guys step right in front of him.

"Hey," he says. "Excuse me!"

The really, painfully skinny one turns and glares at him. "Give me a minute!" he says.

"You can have a minute when you've waited in line like the rest of us," Brendon says, heated.

The other guy, taller and more solid, turns and gives Brendon a cool look. He's got clear blue eyes and the scruffy beginnings of a beard, and he's wearing a pretty expensive looking leather jacket. "Sorry," he says insincerely. "He's a little high strung, and it's been a long drive."

Brendon shouldn't get mad. He shouldn't get mad, but the stupid skinny guy is all up in the face of the poor volunteer, talking volubly, all 'Do you know who I am?' Pompous ass.

"Yeah, it's been a long ride for everyone, buddy," Brendon says. "Just because you drove down in Daddy's Beemer and the rest of us poor peons had to schlep here as best as we could manage doesn't give you the right to cut the line and act like an asshole." Brendon's hands are on his hips, and he probably looks ridiculous in his indignation, but whatever, this is so not cool.

The guy with blue eyes smiles suddenly, a giddy smile so far from his previous cold smirk that Brendon feels like he's missing something.

"You hear that, Ry?" he says to his friend, who is glaring at Brendon like he wants him to drop dead. "Just because we drove down in Daddy's Beemer we don't have the right to cut."

Ryan -- if that's his name -- fights not to smile. "Well," he says. "We can't bank on my father's reputation, can we?" He throws his head back and laughs. Brendon could be mistaken, but he's pretty sure he's wearing eyeliner. He's very pretty, in a sharp kind of way. His hair is long and he has a rose tucked behind one ear.

His blue-eyed friend sighs. "Come on," he says, wrapping a hand around Ryan's thin bicep. "He's right, you know. We'll get a hotel tonight, and we'll figure things out in the morning."

Brendon can't help but feel a little smug. He must not keep his face as neutral as he thinks because the taller guy rolls his eyes.

"You play?" he asks.

"Huh?" Brendon says.

"Guitar," the guy says, impatiently. "You've got one on your back. Do you play it?"

"Yeah," Brendon says. "Of course."

"Cool," he says. "You should jam with us. We're playing tomorrow at five, but we'll be backstage all day. Just tell the guys that Spencer from Hive of Bees said you're cool."

Brendon starts. He's totally heard of Hive of Bees. Everyone has. They're like the latest too-cool indie band to make it big. They opened for Devendra Banhart on his last tour and Pitchfork gave their second album a nine point six. Even Brendon knows that, and he hasn't used a computer outside of checking his email at a net cafe in six months. "Uh, okay," he mumbles.

Spencer pauses, and looks back over his shoulder. "Hey, what's your name, anyway?"

"Brendon Urie," Brendon says, and then immediately feels like a dope for saying his last name too.

Spencer laughs, and smiles that generous smile again. "Okay Brendon Urie. See you in the AM."

Brendon pays for his ticket, face red.

By the time he's inside the camping area, he's so tired he's not even sure if he can make it to a decent spot. He's ready to pitch his tent on the first flat space he comes across. He can smell food cooking somewhere and his stomach grumbles. It's not too crowded yet; he decides he'll make for the treeline. More privacy over there, although Brendon's not sure why he need privacy. He picks a spot near but not too near a pretty massive and well established camp. These people look like they're here for the duration. There are ten or twelve little tents, and a huge main tent, hung with lights. There's music playing, and there's laughter. Brendon likes being near them, even if he's not really all that near.

He gets to work on the tent. It doesn't seem like it's been packed right (probably Gerard's work, Frank would say) because a bunch of the lines are tangled. Brendon sits back on his heels and works them loose as best he can. It's fully dark now and he can't see too well. He fiddles for a minute, not sure which way is up. He's almost sure he's got it right and he's spreading his tarp when he sees some guys with flashlights heading his way. They're coming from that big camp. He's probably made too much noise and bothered them or something.

"Sorry," he says, grinning and rubbing one elbow awkwardly. "First time I've pitched this tent."

One of the guys says solemnly, "First rule of camping's never pitch a tent alone. Right, Tom?"

"Totally, dude," Tom says. He's taller and blonder than his friend. They reek of pot and beer, which Brendon takes as a good sign.

Tom and his friend Jon take over the tent enterprise. They invite Brendon to join their camp, and argue over the position of his tent, shifting it six inches this way and six inches that, until he's got to point out he's basically on top of them. They just laugh and tell him not to worry. Brendon sits cross-legged in the wet grass while they pitch his tent. They clap him on the back when they're done, and invite him over for a beer and a smoke. He's so tired he feels like his knees might give out, but whatever, he's here.

It's a clear gorgeous night and the stars are different here than they were in Reno, than they ever were in Las Vegas, but the Milky Way is bright and Brendon is ready to forgive Ian, to forgive even those asshole girls from Chico who set him on this path. He brings his guitar and he meets Tom and Jon's friends and families. They all come together every year. It's a tradition. He stays up late, so late, talking a little too much. Someone hands him a hot dog and even though he doesn't really eat meat he thinks it would probably be rude to refuse it, so he eats it anyway. Besides, he is very hungry.

He outlasts them all, drowsing in his fold-up camp chair when even Tom heads to bed. Brendon sits up for a while longer, watching the fire reduce to orange embers and watching the stars and listening to the distant music from other campsites. When even that has mostly quieted, he goes to bed himself. He's asleep before he can even toe off his shoes.

He wakes late the next morning. People are up and about in Jon's camp. They wave to him and he waves back, but he needs to keep a little distance, he thinks. He zips up his tent and heads down to the vendor area to find Frank and Gerard. The grass is dewy and he slips once but catches himself. Everyone is stirring. Lots of people are streaming in, on foot and by car. The music starts early. The huge tent that houses the main stage looms in the distance, over the hill. The vendor section is pretty big, five full rows. Brendon wanders around for a while, distracted by beautiful glassware glinting in the early sun and ogling custom guitars he'd give anything to own. There's so much. There's guys selling tie-dyes and Guatemalan shorts and there's a face painting booth and someone selling all kinds of kites and flags: a bunch are set up and waving happily in the wind. They make Brendon's heart glad.

Finally, he finds Gerard's tent. Frank is struggling with the boxes while Gerard worries the banner hanging out front.

"It looks straight to me," Brendon says.

Gerard startles and nearly falls from his ladder.

"Jesus Christ, Brendon. You scared the shit out of me," he says, clutching his chest.

"I don't know what you were looking at, anyway," Frank says. "Nothing straight around here."

They all snicker. Brendon really hopes, no matter who he ends up with or if he even ends up with anyone at all, that he can still make lame and vaguely embarrassing jokes when he's all old and stuff.

Brendon helps them put up the sign and unpack the shirts and Gerard is thrilled that he knows how to fold properly.

"You should see Frank," Gerard whispers, loudly enough for Frank to hear. "His idea of folding a shirt is to crumple it into a little ball and then pat it flat."

Brendon laughs. "He didn't grow up Mormon, I take it," he says. His mother taught him to do laundry when he was six.

"No," Frank says. "And I'm sorry I don't live up to your folding standards, Mr. Oh-it's-not-really-dirty-I-only-wore-it-four-times."

Gerard squawks. "That was a long time ago, in my wayward youth!"

"Oh please," Frank says. His dreadlocks are tucked up in an enormous hat this morning. "Wayward youth." He snorts. "Unsanitary youth is more like it." He tries to sound grumpy but Gerard makes a pitiful face so ridiculous he laughs.

By the time all the shirts are folded and everything is neat and Gerard's got the credit card machine mostly figured out it's ten o'clock and the first curious shoppers are poking around. Frank disappears and comes back with pancakes and coffee for everyone from the staff kitchen. Brendon is starving and grateful. He tries not to look too hungry after he's done with his plate but they're really good pancakes, studded with blueberries that goosh when you bite into them. He can't keep his stomach from rumbling, loudly. When Gerard realizes what the noise is, he laughs and insists that Brendon finish his pancakes, too.

They sell a few shirts, and then a few more, and then things really pick up. It's not surprising. Gerard's shirts are really fucking awesome: there are some designs that are impossibly intricate vines and flowers and leaves, curling in fantastic geometric shapes, and some that are of bats and zombies and one with the most incredible Gothic cathedral. It makes Brendon want to move to France immediately and like, become a recluse or a dying poet. Gerard shows a surprisingly keen business sense. When people try to haggle with him, he's pretty good at sticking to his guns. Unless the person haggling is a little kid, or an old lady with mismatched bottle cap earrings, or an earnest looking kid, younger than Brendon even, who says he's buying a shirt for his girlfriend. It's pretty fun. Brendon understand why Frank and Gerard do this: they get to talk to people and sit in the sun with the dogs underfoot. Still, after refolding the long sleeve tees for the third time, Brendon is starting to flag a little.

During a lull in business he browses a program. Sure enough, Hive of Bees is playing one set, five o'clock this afternoon. Brendon flushes when he thinks of how rude he'd been the previous night. He'd been in the right, but still. It was maybe a little harsh. He kind of ... he's almost made up his mind to actually take Spencer up on his offer. He's pretty sure the guy was just messing with him, but hey, an invitation is an invitation. He's got nothing to else to do, really, and it would be cool to talk to actual musicians about music. He's got nothing on his plate other than to hang out with Frank and Gerard and enjoy some awesome music. Fall Out Boy's headlining tomorrow. Widespread's playing on Sunday. Brendon's pretty damn excited. He doesn't have a clue where he's headed after this, but that's okay.

Gerard and Frank must see he's antsy because they cut him loose at one, with strict orders to go have a good time. He wanders the fairway for a while, trying to ignore the various food stands until he breaks down and gets a tempeh Reuben. He eats it quickly and licks his fingers when he's done. He finds a message board by the info tent, and even though he's given it up for lost, he borrows a piece of paper and a sharpie from the guy handing out programs and leaves a note for Ian, demanding the return of his guitar, mock angry. He squeezes into the audience in front of the main stage and blisses out in the sunshine. He catches the last few songs of the set of a crazy four piece band from Canada, who sing a song about William S. Burroughs. He can't help but get up and dance. When he's had enough of watching from the audience, he climbs up to the top of the hill. From here, he can see the whole festival spread out before him. It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

He's back down by the main stage, thinking maybe he'll go check in on Frank and Gerard, see if they want to stretch their legs, when he hears someone call his name. He looks around. It's Spencer from Hive of Bees. He's leaning over the fence that separates the stage area from the walkway, and he's waving.

"Dude, you totally blew me off," he says, when Brendon gets close enough. "I thought we had a date." He looks a little cranky.

"Uh, I was helping my friends sell shirts," Brendon says. "I was gonna ..." He stops. "No, honestly, I thought you were totally screwing with me."

Spencer grins. "Well, I was kinda," he says. "But you're here now."

"Well, I'm over here," Brendon says. He's flirting. He's pretty sure he's flirting, and it's probably not his fault because in daylight Spencer's eyes are even bluer, and his mouth is red and curving. Hive of Bees must be the prettiest fucking band on the planet.

Spencer tells him to hop the fence but some of the security guys see what they're up to and they insist on Brendon coming around through the gate and getting a guest badge. Once all proper protocol has been observed, he's standing backstage next to Spencer, wishing he had a pair of jeans that were a little less shabby. Spencer's are distractingly tight and look expensive. Brendon cut his off at the knee weeks ago, and they've started to fray. Also, he drew a Steal Your Face on the right thigh, upside down and colored it in with pink highlighter.

"So," Spencer says. "Brendon Urie, I know you don't like line-cutters and you play guitar. What else should I know?"

"I'm an Aries," he quips. "I like picnics and white wine."

Spencer laughs a little. "Seriously dude," he says. "What's your deal? It's not everyone that's willing to face down Ryan Ross."

"Yeah," Brendon says. "It's not like I knew it was him."

"So you're saying if you did you wouldn't have said anything?" Spencer asks, mouth twisting.

"No," Brendon says quickly. "I'm just saying I didn't know I was supposed to quake in terror at his very presence."

"And now you know better," Spencer says. His face is solemn, but his eyes are mirthful.

"I'll be sure to defer from now on," Brendon says. He's not ... he's so nervous, and it's making him be mouthy. That's what his mom used to say, disappointed, before she sent him to his room. Spencer seems to like it though, smiling and tossing his shiny dark blonde hair. He must use expensive conditioner, like Brendon's sister, who spent like a hundred dollars on a single bottle. His sister's hair never looked anything like Spencer's though, which looks impossibly soft.

They sit backstage and watch Keller Williams for a while, and then Ryan shows up. He's just as skinny and just as pretty as he was last night, but he seems nicer, somehow -- not quite as rigid with anger. He is wearing patchouli, so strong that Brendon can smell it from three feet away. He sits down next to Spencer, very close, takes off his ridiculous sunglasses, and says, "So, I guess you got inside."

"Apparently," Brendon says.

"Hmm," Ryan says. "Spencer says you play guitar."

"Yeah," Brendon says. "A little."

"You either play or you don't," Ryan says, matter of fact.

"I play," Brendon says, a little more heat in his voice than there should be.

Ryan grabs a guitar from a case by his feet. He holds it out to Brendon, who takes it gingerly. His fingers feel thick and clumsy. These guys are professional musicians, and he's just some dumb kid. He tunes for a second.

"Uh, I don't really have any original stuff," he says, and then he starts in on Bertha. He screws up the chord progression before the first verse, but he's not making a fool of himself. Ryan's face is smooth and cautious, but Spencer's smiling. Nobody says anything when he's done but he's feeling pretty good. It's good to have a guitar in his hands, to hold people rapt as he sings and plays. "You've probably heard this one before," he says, laughing, and he plays Hard Day's Night. It was the first song he ever learned on guitar, so long ago, but he still knows it by heart. A few more people have gathered to listen so instead of stopping he just segues right into Folsom River Blues -- far from the smoothest transition, but what the hell.

This time, when he's done, people applaud.

"You didn't say you could sing, too," Spencer says, sounding annoyed but smiling.

Ryan hasn't said a word. He takes the guitar back and puts it away carefully, and then gets up and walks off.

"That bad, huh?" Brendon says. He rubs the back of his head. His hair's pretty long and it's hot out. He'd like to tie it back but he doesn't have an elastic. He'd like to get it cut but he hasn't got the money.

"I don't think so," says Spencer. "Why don't you write your own stuff?" he asks, a moment later.

"Uh," Brendon says. "I was. My parent's didn't really encourage my musical inclinations when I was a kid. They're pretty ... Mormon."

Spencer laughs. "Okay, I got it," he says. "I'm from Nevada. I know how that is."

"Oh no way," Brendon says. "I grew up in Vegas."

Spencer's eyes go round. "You're fucking kidding me," he says. They're from Vegas, too. Spencer and Ryan grew up in Summerlin, not more than five minutes from where Brendon lived -- where his parents still live today. They would have gone to the same high school, if Ryan didn't get accepted to a fancy performing arts high school in New York City on scholarship, and Spencer didn't follow him east. They could have been classmates. They could have been friends.

They talk for a long time about Vegas, about home. Spencer didn't speak to his parents for two years after he left for New York City at age fourteen. They'd tried everything short of hiring a bounty hunter to get him to come home, but he and Ryan had stayed with one of Ryan's cousins in a rundown apartment in a not-so-bad section of Queens, and he got his high school equivalency before his seventeenth birthday. By the time Ryan graduated, Hives of Bees had released two dozen demos and two official singles, and played shows all over the city and in Philly and Boston. Brendon wishes he'd done as much, wishes he had something to show for these years he's wasted other than good memories. They're not even all good. Still, he can't help but feel thankful. Things could be so much worse. He knows people who are messed up on dope. He knows people who have overdosed; he's seen people cold and pale and barely breathing. He tells Spencer about that, and about life on Fall Out Boy tour, about what he's done between tours. He talks about the ill-fated week he spent picking peaches on a California ranch. The pay had sucked, and Brendon was definitely not cut out for a life of hard labor. The blisters on his fingers were so bad he couldn't play guitar. That's why he'd quit, even more so than the heat and the dirt and the labor.

It's easy talking to Spencer, almost too easy. Before he knows it the sun is in decline and he's watching Ryan and Spencer warm up, go over their set list. Ryan still hasn't said a word to him. Brendon tries to be inconspicuous, to keep out of the way. He cheers when they head out on stage. He stands on the side, hands in his back pockets and a smile on his face. They're awesome. He's heard some of their music, not all of it, but some, and they're really awesome. And the crowd loves them. Ryan, who seemed so stiff even when he wasn't fuming, is looser on stage, smiling and joking, and Spencer is a blur behind his drum kit. It's the craziest thing Brendon's ever seen, and maybe the best, how into it Spencer is.

The set goes too fast; they've only got fifty minutes, and they blaze through a few songs. Ryan banters a little between each one, more at ease in front of a crowd of thousands than he seemed like he could possibly be.

Then Ryan's saying, "So this is our last song and we want to bring a friend of ours out to help us ..." Spencer's catches Brendon's eye and grinning, motions for him to come on stage and strong, insistent hands are pushing him forward. Holy shit.

Brendon stumbles and then finds his feet. Ryan turns his back on the audience for a moment and puts a hand on Brendon's shoulder. "You know this one," he whispers, leaning close. "Relax." He hands him the mike.

Spencer counts them in. Ryan plays the opening chords of Dance, Dance, and then Brendon's singing. He doesn't know how, but he's singing. He hears his voice in the monitors and the roaring crowd hears it through the speakers and his stomach aches and he's not sure how he remembers the words, but he keeps singing. His mouth moves independently of conscious thought, and he tries not to stand so stiff but it's hard to know what to do, especially without a guitar, just him and the mike and the sea of faces, and Ryan to his left and Spencer behind.

He makes it through. He doesn't know how, but he makes it through and the crowd cheers and claps and he waves and bows and runs off stage, because what the fuck. He can't breathe, can't believe what he just did. Spencer and Ryan are right behind him, on their way off stage too, and Spencer throws a warm sweaty arm over his shoulder.

"You were awesome, Brendon," he says, excited. "I told Ryan you would be ..."

Brendon pushes free. "What the fuck was that?" he asks.

"Woah. I was trying to be nice," Spencer says. He takes a step back. "I thought you'd be into it."

"I guess I'm not," Brendon says. He still feels dizzy or something. He wants a drink. He wants to lay down. He wants to go back on stage and sing as loud as he can, 'till his throat hurts and the words won't come any more.

Spencer is frowning, reproach in those blue eyes. "Hey, stage fright is nothing to be ..."

"I don't have stage fright!" Brendon says. "Fuck." He closes his eyes. He's too hot and he's still hungry and he's so angry, angrier than he has any reason to be. There's something tight and heavy in his gut that twists, and he starts to walk away, quickly. He can hear Spencer calling his name, but he doesn't want to stop. The guards are supposed to keep people out; they don't stop him from heading back into the thick of the crowd. He doesn't watch where he's going and doesn't stop when he shoves into people. He doesn't look back to see if Spencer is still following.

He walks until he's got nowhere to go. He's out past the furthest camping area, where the festival grounds fade back into farmland. Beyond a row of unruly shrub growth is a pasture. It's quiet; the music from the main stage is distant. He lays down on his back and stares up at the blue sky. His heart is still racing and he's not even sure why. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes ago, but already his time on the stage seems unreal, like a dream. He thinks maybe he likes it better that way. Maybe nothing he's done these past few years is real; just a game, his father would say, shaking his head disapprovingly. It counts for nothing, not in the ways that matter. He knows he could go home and make his apologies and he could pledge his faith and his family would welcome him back with open arms. When he stepped out onto that stage with so many people watching, it seemed like that option was slipping out of reach. That mattered. Brendon wanted it to matter.

He lays in the warm grass thinking about home, about his mother and family picnics and the first time he played a guitar and more than anything about what it was like to stand front and center on that stage. There's a cricket somewhere in the grass near his head, chirping regularly. Everything smells like summer. That's the last thing he remembers thinking before he falls asleep. He wakes after an indeterminate amount of time tense and unsure, no idea where is he. Then he remembers: watching Hive of Bees from the side of the stage, Spencer smiling as Ryan calls him on stage, the strange abstraction that was the audience, the sweaty warm of the mike when Ryan handed it to him ...

He sits up, brushes bits of grass from his hair. He's still sleepy-slow. The festival roars on, over the hill. His stomach gurgles emptily. He gets up and walks back towards the vendors. There are more people shopping and children yelling and the grass has been trodden flat and everything is dusty. A man sells strawberry banana smoothies; the blenders whir. Someone is passing out pamphlets; Brendon takes one without bothering to see what particular agenda they promote. Even with evening approaching, the sun is hot on the back of his neck. He waivers.

Gerard is alone at the booth, sketching, concentration fixed on the page. Brendon stays silent and watches him work for a long moment before he says awkwardly, "Hey."

Gerard looks up, startled. "Brendon! Hi! You just missed Frank. He was starting to complain so I told him to go listen to some music. I can't concentrate when he's whining."

Brendon handles sales for a while so Gerard can draw. He smiles courteously and tries to engage people in conversation. He's never been as gregarious as he feels like he should be, especially not in situations like this. The crowds thin as the sun sets; people are settling in at the stage for the night's music. Two girls, maybe sixteen years old, flip through the stacks of shirt. They have matching hair wraps and wear gauzy skirts that float down to their ankles. Brendon smiles broadly and says, "Hello ladies."

They titter. Then the one girl narrows her eyes and says, "Oh, hey, you're the guy that sang with Hive of Bees today, aren't you?"

Brendon pales. "Um," he says. "Yeah."

"You were really good," the other girl says. "So are you friends with the band or something?"

"Thanks," Brendon says. "And uh, no, not really. It was kind of a surprise to me too. Spur of the moment."

"Oh," the girl says, quickly losing interest. "Well that's cool." She turns back to her friends. They disorder a few more stacks of shirts, and then move on.

Gerard is staring at him, curious. "What were they talking about?" he asks.

Brendon frowns. "Nothing ... it was nothing," Brendon says. "Just nothing."

Frank comes back after dark with bowls of vegetarian chili for Gerard and Brendon. Brendon's so hungry he barely says thank you before he starts eating.

"Oh, teenagers," Frank says fondly.

"'M not a teenager," Brendon says between mouthfuls. "Turned twenty in April."

"It's all the same," Frank says, waving his hand. "You're an infant in my eyes." He turns to make change for a woman buying a tote bag. When he's done, he turns and says, "Oh, by the way, some kid came around earlier looking for you ..."

Brendon frowns. It must have been Spencer. "Ugh," he says.

"Not a friend of yours, I take it. Am I going to have to mess someone up?" Frank asks. He looks a little too excited at the prospect; Spencer has him beat by six inches and forty pounds.

"I just...," Brendon says. "Okay, so Last night I kind of ran into these guys, and they're in a band, and I hung out with them today. We jammed a little and I stayed to watch their set. And, um, they invited me on stage. But they didn't tell me, or anything, they just announced it to everyone, and I went and I sang, but it was fucking weird."

"I hope by fucking weird you mean fucking awesome," Frank says. Gerard just stares.

"Yeah, no," Brendon says. "It was. It was. It's just. I don't know. I wasn't expecting it and it was like they were trying to do me some kind of favor or something. It was weird. I'm not some kind of a novelty act."

"Why would they think that?" Gerard says.

Brendon shrugs. He feels worse. He didn't want to say anything. It was stupid. It was an aberration.

"I hate to break it to you," Frank says. "But you're kind of really talented. I'm not a psychic or anything, but if they invited you out on stage, I bet they thought so too."

"I guess," Brendon says, squirming, miserable.

Frank and Gerard drop it, but everything is awkward after, and nothing's like it was. They pack everything up for the night and when they're done Brendon says goodnight. He doesn't want anything more than to go back to his tent and to sleep and forget the entire day. The camping area is largely empty; from the top of the hill, he can see the crowd at the main stage, swollen far larger than it was earlier in the day. Children wear glow stick necklaces and bracelets. Brendon's mom always made sure he had a glow stick on Halloween. He doesn't know the band that's playing. He wants to say he doesn't care.

Inside his tent it is cold and damp. He wraps himself in the sleeping bag and tries to fall asleep but that smells like damp too, and plastic. He closes his eyes and tries to remember the set list of the first Fall Out Boy show he ever went to. He can't; he didn't know then that was something you were supposed to do. It was a long time ago, too. Three years in October, but it seems so much longer. The memory of night ought to be preserved in the most excruciating detail; instead, it's bled into the memories of so many similar nights, many of them good but few exceptional enough to remain distinct.

He twists and turns but there are bumps and lumps no matter how he lays. He uses his sweatshirt as a pillow. It smells sweaty. If his clothes hadn't been ripped off, he'd be long overdue for a trip to the laundromat. He's kind of sick of wearing jeans so dirty they don't even really look blue any more, more grey-brown. If he finds a Wal-mart or a thrift store, he can probably get a new pair for a few bucks. It's almost a full moon and the night is bright even through the orange nylon of his tent.

He abandons sleep. He unzips his tent and crawls out. It's colder now; nights are cold in the mountains. He pulls on the sweatshirt and wishes he had a pair of socks.

Someone comes looming up out of the darkness. It's Jon, from last night.

"Brendon, man, I saw you today, " he says, grinning. "You were great, buddy!" His breath is beery, and he's got a cup in his hand. "Come hang out."

Brendon can't think of any reason to say no so he grabs his guitar and follows Jon over to the campfire. Everyone congratulates him; he barely remembers a single name from the introductions the night before. He curls up, sitting on his feet, and silently accepts the beer Jon hands him. He doesn't feel like saying much, cowed by this crowd of people he doesn't know, but when some of the smaller kids start to doze and are sent to their tents he takes out his guitar and plays what they ask him to play, if he knows the songs.

It's easy and he loves it, maybe too much. He forgets the words to Casey Jones but Jon's mom laughingly helps him along; she sings in her church choir and has a pretty soprano voice. He plays Waterloo Sunset and Heavy Things and Life During Wartime. Tom calls for I Want It That Way and and he and Jon sing along as Brendon plods through the song; he doesn't know any words other than the chorus, but what he doesn't know Tom and Jon fill in. When his fingers start to hurt he takes a break to roast marshmallows. He sucks at not catching them on fire, so he eats them charbroiled and tries not to think about carcinogens. Jon claims he can roast the perfect marshmallow, which sets off a fierce competition. They all attempt to find the ideal roasting angle and position, and end up so close to the fire their skin gets painfully hot. In the end it's too dark to see whose is best anyway, and there's no criteria besides, so they eat as many as they can until their stomachs hurt and let the rest burn.

Later, after that, they watch for shooting stars but the moon must be too bright because they don't see a single one. Brendon stands and stretches and his back cracks loudly. He's tired and he doesn't know what time it is but it's a lot later than he thought he'd make it. He starts to put away his guitar.

"I want to come see one of your shows," Jon says, happy. "What's your cell phone number? We have to stay in touch."

"I don't really play anywhere," Brendon says, slowly. "I mean, just for fun, you know?"

Jon laughs. "So this was a one-off, exclusive performance, I take it?"

"Something like that," Brendon says, and he feels kind of sad, like he's a disappointment anyway, because he doesn't do what he was always told he could never do. "I'll come back tomorrow night, though, if you guys are around."

"Sweet," Jon says. "We'll be back up here after Widespread plays."

Jon pats him on the back, exuberant.

Brendon goes back to his tent and zips himself back up inside, and he sleeps then, but not easily.

The next morning he wakes late and it is already hot. He's stifled. He doesn't feel that he has rested. He unzips the tent door and shoves his heat outside but that air isn't much fresher. The day will be a crucible. He wants to take a shower but there's no chance of that. He finds an empty plastic cup on the ground and he walks a few hundred feet and fills it at the water tanker, and as well as he can he rinses the dirt from his hands and arms and feet and the back of his neck. When he's done he pours the rest of the water out and watches it trickle downhill a little way before being soaked into the earth.

He feels that something intrinsic has changed, but he doesn't know what.

He's still basically broke but he walks downhill and spends three dollars on a small coffee and a bagel. He can't afford cream cheese. The bagel tastes just exactly like the bagels they used to serve in his high school cafeteria. Maybe there's some centralized bagel manufacturing compound, and they all get shipped out from there, hundreds and hundreds all across the country. He lingers around the main stage. He thinks he wants to apologize. He wants to apologize to Spencer and Ryan because that's what he ought to do. His mother would be ashamed if she knew how he'd acted. He still doesn't know how he feels about what they did but there's no excuse for rudeness. He doesn't see them, but he does see the security guy who signed him in yesterday.

"Hey," he says. "Do you know if Spencer and Ryan are going to be around today? From Hive of Bees?"

The guy stares for a second like he can't place Brendon but then he says, "Should be around later. They're part of one of the showcases later this afternoon."

"Do you think you could tell Spencer that Brendon is looking for him? I'll be at the Dirty Looks tee shirt booth." he says, and the guy rolls his eyes but he says yes, fine, he'll pass the message along. Brendon's not sure he will but it's okay. He'll come back later, even though the odds he'll run into Spencer again are slim. Whatever. It's fine. Even if he does they probably think he's some kind of freak after what he did. Probably they won't even want to listen to his dumb apology. Probably they don't care. He's just some stupid kid, anyway, and they're professional musicians. They're famous and they're living the dream.

He gets to the booth before Frank and Gerard are even there and he starts to set up for them, rolling up tarps and unpacking boxes. They show up with coffee and donuts a little while later. Brendon keeps himself occupied with mundane tasks; the morning proceeds. The crowd is later to rise today, so Frank breaks out his guitar and Brendon sings along with whatever he's playing. People linger to listen. Some of them stay on to make conversation about the music or the festival or Gerard's shirts. Business languishes. The heat is intense; everything has slowed, suspended. Brendon wets one of Gerard's bandannas and ties it around his forehead. Beyond the patchwork shade of the booths, the light is severe. A little girl pulls a red wagon full of ice. It must weigh twice what she does. She sells it for five dollars a bag: outrageous, but it's all sold before she's gone two hundred feet.

Hive of Bees is playing at three as part of a tribute with some other musicians. Brendon tells Frank and Gerard he's going to go check out some music and they wave him on. Gerard is napping intermittently and Frank is going through receipts. Brendon tells them he won't be too long.

The crowd is restive and noisy. Brendon sits a good way away from the stage. Some guys are tossing a frisbee; one of their throws goes badly off target and Brendon jogs over to retrieve the disk. He flips it back and they tell him to play, so he does. Brendon takes off his shoes because the soles have almost no tread and he cuts the bottom of his foot. It hurts but there's not really anything he can do so he keeps playing. His shirt sticks to his chest. The one guy keeps trying to throw the disk around his back but keeps screwing up.

He stops playing when the showcase thing is about to start. The emcee calls everyone on stage. Ryan and Spencer stand to the far left. Spencer is wearing a tight white shirt; Brendon wants to measure the breadth of his shoulders with the span of his hands. He closes his eyes and swallows. He doesn't want to watch. He can't bring himself to watch so he closes his eyes and thinks about all the things he wants and all the things he was told he could never had, and it seems a shame that if the two were charted in a Venn diagram, the circles would overlap almost completely. The music is distance. Ryan's banter with the female singer sharing the stage provokes a laugh from the audience, a low rumble that cascades. A mosquito buzzes angrily and lands on Brendon's upper arm. He's quick enough to smash it; burst, it leaves a little puddle of blood.

Brendon could lay in the tall grass forever. The sun is warm enough to make him sleep and there are good earthy smells and music and a blue sky. He can get by without much else. But tomorrow the festival will end and the site crew will come and they will pick up all the refuse and pull up all the tent stakes and pack it all away and then there will just be the fields and the grass and the wind. And then he's alone again, until he finds someone else who is kind enough or dumb enough to take pity on him for a little while. It's worked out so far but probably it'll stop sometime and he'll have to grow up and he doesn't know if he knows how to do that, not if being grown up means having a house and a wife and a job that requires dress shirts and Macy's ties. He wants ...

The set ends. Brendon sits up and something in his back cracks. Sleeping on the ground's no good; he's so stiff. He rolls his neck. He tugs a stalk of grass from its sheath and shreds it. On the stage, they are waving and bowing and ducking away. Spencer pauses though for just a second and says, "We'll be signing stuff at the merchandise tent after this, and we'd love for you to come say hi."

Oh.

The set is over and the PA system starts pumping Paul Simon -- Brendon's dad had Graceland on cassette and they listened to it on the way to school in the morning when his dad dropped him off. He still knows all the lyrics by heart. He stands up and brushes the grass off of his ass and starts down the hill. He thinks he'll go say sorry and thank you and that's it. Maybe sometime later there will be another chance. Maybe he'll take Frank's advice and he'll write a few songs and play a few shows and maybe something will come of it and they'll play a festival together or something, and things can begin again. Or maybe not. Maybe Brendon will hitch a ride to New York City and he'll sleep in the doorway of a bodega under yellow streetlights, like in the song.

There's an empty beer bottle on the ground. Someone could trip and break their ankle. He picks it up to toss in a recycling barrel: they are large and bright blue plastic and everywhere. The folk scene has a pretty enormous conscience. All the silverware at the staff kitchen is made of biodegradable plastic, which Brendon thinks is kind of dumb. They should just use regular silverware. His head hurts a little. He probably should get some water, because it's hot in a way he's not used to: the air is humid and heavy and stiff, and the clouds are multiplying in the heat.

He buys a bottle of Poland Spring and chugs it. Water dribbles down his chin. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The merchandise tent is just behind the stage, under a low yellow and red striped marquee. The line for the signing snakes around the outside. It's mostly girls, young and tan and barefoot, braids in their hair. Brendon is in select company. They laid out hay overnight, over top of all the trodden dirt, to keep the dust down. Brendon went to a horse farm once on a field trip in elementary school, and it smelled like hay there too. He finishes the water.

Then someone calls his name, and he looks up, frowning. It's motherfucking Ian. Brendon could spot that hair from a mile away.

Ian runs up to him, panting. He is wearing pants that look to be made entirely of patches, and a tank top that doesn't reach his navel.

"Dude," he says. "I can't believe you're here. I have your guitar."

Brendon swallows. "Oh man," he says. "I was so pissed at you. Where the fuck did you go?"

"I was tripping so hard," Ian says. "My friend Rowan drove me to a hotel to come down. I had no idea where you were."

"Oh," Brendon says. "Shit. I was fine. I got a ride out here with these two guys."

"Nice," Ian says. "But hey, I'm leaving for North Carolina in a half an hour. Come up to my car with me to get your guitar."

The line at the merch tent is growing longer, but Ian looks antsy.

Brendon hesitates only a second; his parents gave him the guitar for his sixteenth birthday, a temporary concession in a war they were determined not to lose. It's not like a classic or anything. If he tried to sell it he probably wouldn't even get fifty bucks. He doesn't know, because he's never tried. Even when he's been reduced to sleeping outside and hasn't had the money for a bus ticket or a cup of coffee, he's never seriously considered selling his guitar. That's probably an answer to a question Brendon never really wanted to ask.

He trudges up the hill for what seems like the hundredth time. Ian is camping way up top. He tells Brendon that he wasn't planning on driving out but his friend Rowan (Brendon's met her more than once; she is thin and pale and has aggressively bold black eyebrows.) had an extra ticket and it seemed rude to refuse when she wanted to give it to him. Ian is like that; he welcomes and even expects good fortune.

Rowan sits on the trunk, painting her toenails day-glo orange. She is wearing a string bikini and cut-off shorts, and has a mehndi around her belly button. She doesn't say a word when they walk up, just focuses intently on her toes. Ian's car is packed solid. He starts to root around in the back seat, pull out coolers and backpacks and an entire case of Capri Suns. Brendon's guitar is wrapped in a tapestry. Ian hands it over. Brendon hesitates before taking it out of the case, fearing the worst, but it's intact. He strums a few chords. It's not even too badly out of tune.

Brendon exhales.

There is an ominous groan overhead. Brendon looks up. The sky is dark, and darker to the west. The wind is starting to blow.

"Fuck," Ian says. "We're getting down before it starts to rain. I am not missing Charlotsville because we're stuck on the top of a fucking hill."

Rowan slips off the trunk and drops into the passengers seat. She still needs to finish two toes on her right foot. Ian repacks his car.

"I'd give you a ride, man," he says. "But I'm out of room."

"It's okay," Brendon says. "I'm not headed in that direction anyway."

They say their goodbyes and they drive away. Brendon stares for a few moments at the pale spot in the grass where their tent was pitched. It thunders again, startlingly loud and close. A raindrop hits the back of Brendon's neck; it is startling and heavy.

"Shit," he mumbles, and he looks around. There's no shelter here. The wind makes the tents shake. Brendon's guitar is in his hand, in its nylon case. People are pulling out rain gear, looking skyward.

Brendon starts back downhill at a run, but the rain is starting to fall and the grass is slippery. The band on the stage plays on. Where the audience was, a garden of umbrellas blooms. There's a crack, and the sky is lit neon blue by lightening. All the heat of the day is gone; the rain is cold.

Then, it pours.

Everything is soaked in an instant. His hair drips in his face. Everything is wet and gray and uniform. The ground is disintegrating into slippery mud. Brendon's shoes have nearly no traction. There's a mass exodus from the main stage, and the music has stopped.

Everyone is running; there's no more order or sense to anything. The cheerful painted signs are washed out. Umbrellas roll past like tumbleweeds. Brendon can't find Gerard and Frank's booth. With the flaps down, they all look the same. His shoes squelch wetly with each step. Rain runs down his back, down his face, just everywhere. Someone is dragging a lawn chair. A golf cart rumbles past, kicking up mud. Site crew in yellow slickers secure the big tents. They make Brendon think of Paddington Bear, even though he wore blue and red.

He finds Gerard and Frank's tent; their van is gone, and all the flaps are tied down except one, which flaps angrily. He ducks inside.

It's dark but he doesn't try to find the flashlight. His shirt is dripping and filthy, and he takes it off. He drops to his knees and opens his case. His guitar is soaked. After everything, it's ruined.

A sob catches in his throat and he's cold and he's hungry and he's got nothing, really, not now ...

Then someone says, "You can fix it, you know?"

Brendon jumps like he's touched a live wire. It's Spencer, sitting in Gerard's folding chair wearing a stupid hat. He smiles; his teeth look too white in the gloom. "Hi," he says.

"Hey," Brendon says, trying to look like he's wiping rain water from his cheeks and not tears.

"So you can fix it," Spencer says. "Or you can try. You just need an airtight room and a dehumidifier." His tone is wonderfully matter-of-fact. "Ryan and I lived in a place on Avenue C for a while, and I think the people above us used their apartment as a swimming pool. We salvaged a lot of guitars."

Brendon laughs a tiny laugh, because he doesn't have a humidifier or an airtight room or any kind of fucking room, but when his thoughts drift that way his chest starts to get tight again so he forces himself to concentrate on Spencer's smile, his blue eyes, his nose, which is perky and slightly incongruous with the rest of his face.

"Where are Frank and Gerard?" he asks.

"Your friends? Oh, they had to go get their dogs or something," Spencer says, rolling his eyes. "I told them I was a friend of yours and I'd hold down the fort."

There have surely never been two people as trusting as Frank and Gerard. Brendon is sure of that.

"Oh," Brendon says, quietly. The rain taps an unsteady beat on the top of the booth. He frowns. "What are you doing here?"

Spencer's mouth quirks, like he's almost at the point of laughter. "I was waiting for you," he says.

Brendon can't speak but he smiles.


End file.
